A Strange Friendship
by TolkienScribe
Summary: Of old, a friendship existed between the Hobbits and the Elves. A brief look into their relationship. One-shot. Complete. Part of the Green Leaves Universe. Please read and review!


**A Strange Friendship**

 **Summary:** Of old, a friendship existed between the Hobbits and the Elves. A brief look into their relationship.

 **Rating:** K+

 **Disclaimer:** Not one water drop.

All of my stories are interconnected unless stated otherwise but you do not need to read one to understand the other.

My stories are now available in the form of a list in chronological sequence on my bio.

Enjoy!

 **~S~**

 _The Shire,_

 _Early Third Age,_

Very little fazed good old Blanco, but sometimes he wondered how an Elf could be so agile, graceful and light on his feet.

"Do you possess magic, Master Elf?" He questioned.

"Magic?" Gildor repeated in surprise. Then he laughed merrily. "My, you shouldn't think such things."

"But do you?" Blanco persisted. Gildor met Blanco's soft brown eyes with his keen grey ones.

"I know not of what you speak." He said at last. "If you use the term of Men, which they use to describe things beyond their understanding and has no solid proof of law and order of nature, then no. I do not believe I do have this magic. But my kind is different and what seems perfectly ordinary for us is the opposite for your kind, Men and Dwarves."

"One can hardly jump across the stepping stones and not fall into the river," Blanco grumbled. Gildor stared at him and then looked over his shoulder; at the wide river he just crossed by using the small stones across it. Then he laughed.

"That!" Gildor exclaimed, looking down at Blanco again. Often the Hobbit thought the Elf was too tall; his neck hurt from looking up for so long. "That is only practice, Master Hobbit. If you practice then you will be just as nimble as I am."

"I wouldn't trust a river or anything that has water gathered so!" Blanco said flatly. "Water in such bodies simply kills and does not do anyone good except for getting them drownded!"

"Drowned," Gildor corrected in an airy voice. He sat down on soft light green grass and patted a spot behind him. "Come sit by me, my old friend." He held up a brown sack barely the size of his fist. "Well, the best berries grew across the river and I had every intention of feasting on them. Sit and share with me." Blanco was still in disapproval of the Elf crossing a river but when Gildor opened the sack and began to eat the juicy red berries with relish, he forgot his former annoyance and eagerly scrambled to sit beside him. Gildor offered him some with a small smile. Blanco accepted them and began to eat.

"I never found the time to ask, but why is it that the Hobbits dislike water so? I know your kind bathes, for I have never met anyone from another race who cared so much of cleanliness like your kind!"

"Water in a bathtub is alright and all, and even in the washing-bin." Blanco explained between berries. "They are under our control and there is no fear of getting drownded."

"Drowned," Gildor corrected again, absently. Blanco waved a hand dismissively, his fingers stained with red berry juice.

"But a lake or a pond or a stream or a river, they are large, deep and fast. We can easily die in them. It is a healthy notion to keep away from them. You should too!"

Gildor laughed and said nothing.

They met again when the winter arrived the next year and all trees were bare of their leaves.

"What is it like?" Blanco asked in curiosity. They sat side by side in a cloth spread over the grass, in one of the many small gardens that covered the Shire. "The city you are from?"

"Rivendell?" Gildor asked. Without waiting for a reply, he continued, "it stands in a valley, nestled by mountains behind it and open plains before it. The city is made with golden tiles, and you can see the red rooftops from afar. They grow gardens wherever possible, much like the Shire. There are gardens on the rooftops, on balconies and around the houses."

"What kind of flowers do you grow?" Blanco interrupted, thinking fondly of his own garden. Gildor began to name a few, fumbling slightly as he translated the Elven names for plants into their names in Common Tongue. Blanco listened in interest.

"I wish I could see them." Blanco said wistfully. "They sound beautiful."

"Perhaps you can," Gildor invited. "Come and join me in my next travel. I will take you there and you will see flowers quite unlike those in the Shire."

"Leave the Shire?" Blanco said, aghast. "That is unheard of. I cannot sleep on a rough floor with the sky as my roof! And what about bathing and food?"

"The Wild will provide it all," Gildor said, amused. "Sometimes the journey may be unpleasant but that is why one's destination makes it worthwhile. Oh, come!" Gildor started to laugh. "Do not give me that look! I am not daft."

"I certainly consider you one, for not settling down," Blanco scoffed. "Heed my advice. You better find yourself a place to settle and quick. Leave all this wanderlust behind you. It only brings trouble, you know." Gildor laughed again, thoroughly entertained.

"And from what experience do you speak?" Gildor asked curiously. Now Blanco sputtered, all flustered.

"I have no experience of my own," Blanco said gruffly. "But everyone in the Shire knows that trouble follows if you set your foot on unfamiliar grounds."

Gildor only smiled indulgently and vowed to bring something back from his travels.

The next time he passed through Shire, he met with the Hobbit in a small cluster of trees not far from his home. There, he presented him with a book on the vegetation growing in Imladris and around it. It had detailed sketches of flowers and plants. Gildor bade him to turn to the last page. Curious, Blanco complied and then suddenly laughed. On the last page were the few dried flowers that Gildor described in their previous meeting.

"This is a wonderful gift," Blanco said sincerely. "Maybe someday after I pass, it will be a mathom."

"Mathom, my friend?" Gildor asked, puzzled.

"Oh, er, I forget sometimes how you are not one of us." Blanco said, smacking his hand on his wide forehead. "Mathom is an item that has no use, see?"

Gildor looked at him, bemused.

"If such an item serves you no purpose, then is it not better to dispose of it?" He asked. Blanco frowned and quickly shook his head.

"That will be wrong, see?"

"So a mathom refers to a valuable item that is no longer in use?"

"Err, it may be valuable or it may not."

Gildor felt bewildered. "What use is here to be something that may no longer be valuable? Does it hold some sentiment?"

"Err, not always." Blanco floundered about, trying to explain. Gildor suddenly smiled.

"I am not sure it is polite to call a person's gift useless," Gildor remarked, eyes twinkling.

"That's not what I meant!" Blanco burst, alarmed. "I meant, oh dear, I have made a mess of things! A mathom may be something valuable or useless, but to an owner it will be something dear to his or her heart. And we have museum for such items, where other Hobbits may appreciate it." Blanco stopped, feeling foolish. What were his customs compared to the elegant traditions of Elves?

But Gildor fell silent and looked at him seriously.

"It means much to me that you hold my gift in such regard." Gildor said with such genuine solemnity that Blanco flushed and mumbled incoherently.

Mercifully, Gildor did not pursue the matter further and so it was dropped. They walked on the forest paths for a long time until evening fell. Blanco suddenly turned his head. The shadows were long and the trees were still. Yet he heard singing from a distance. Blanco followed the ethereal voices in a trance.

"Blanco," Gildor called but the Hobbit continued to tread his path.

Blanco came upon the company of Elves. Many sat upon horses. Others walked, wearing long travelling cloaks and holding up banners. Their voices melded together in such harmony that they needed no musical instruments. Blanco stepped forward to hear them better and slipped. The heel of his right foot broke a twig in two with a loud crack. His stumble was broken when a firm hand came at rest on his shoulder and set him upright. He looked behind him to see Gildor crouched beside him.

"Have a care," Gildor said quietly. Blanco did not like the way he looked. There was a new light in Gildor eyes and he was more subdued and silent.

"What are they saying?" Blanco whispered.

"They are singing hymns to the Lady of Starlight." Gildor answered him, "For all Elves love the night and the starlight it brings. She is the Lady who dwells beyond the Sea, and that is where the Elves are headed."

"Why?"

Gildor smiled sadly.

"They are now weary of this world. It brings no joy to them any longer. That may be caused be anything; the death of one they love, the horrors of war and ruin, the death of friends among mortals." Gildor glanced at him. "Grief is a powerful poison for Elves."

Blanco did not like the sound of that.

"And where do they go, beyond the Sea?" He asked.

"There is a place, where they will shed their weariness and grief. They will be happy for a time. Yet that place is also not devoid of darkness. It touched them long ago, when the world was still new. But it will bring them the peace they crave."

Blanco thought of the wide and deep waters and shuddered. One might easily drown in them. And what sort of place could exist there?

"Will you not go and meet them?" Blanco inquired. Gildor was silent, as if considering the notion. Then he shook his head.

"There is nothing that is left for them here. I will not hinder them, if their happiness will be found beyond the Sea."

The last of the steeds passed them by and Gildor then rose to his full height. For a long while, he stared after them, deep in thought. Then he shook his head as if he roused from sleep.

"Come," he said in a low voice. And it seemed to Blanco as if he spoke to himself. "There are things to be done and not all tasks in this world are complete." With that, Gildor ambled away.

Blanco stayed behind briefly, and his thoughts went back to what Gildor said about the Sea and how they will never return.

"Sheer madness," Blanco muttered, "impossible, and not normal at all."

When winter came, they met again under the largest and oldest tree, dressed for warmth and comfort.

Gildor was glad to see his friend, but Blanco could not say the same. He had the entire year to give much thought about Elves and the more thought he gave, the more uncomfortable he got. So they sat in a terse silence.

"Is there something amiss?" Gildor asked eventually. "Have I done something to upset you?"

Blanco frowned and shook his head.

"Nay." He paused. "Aye."

"Perhaps it is best to discuss it?" Gildor prodded after a brief pause. Blanco chewed his lower lip in thought.

"Why do you go to the Sea?" Blanco asked. Gildor frowned slightly. It was question he already once answered.

"The Elves cross the Sea to a place where they will finally know peace. It is a place where they can cast aside all the weariness they gathered in the world."

"Why?"

"It is how we are made." Gildor said quietly. "All mortals can escape Middle-Earth but we Elves have our lives forever tethered to this place. It bears our mark and in turn it burdens us with hardships over time."

Gildor looked upon his friend and saw a queer expression on his face. He could only describe it as suspicion and distrust.

"You asked, Blanco." Gildor reminded him.

"I don't like it." Blanco said finally. "I do not like any of this. How can one be so weary that they wish to pass over the Sea to a fabled city?"

"It is not a fable, Master Hobbit," Gildor said patiently. "It is a place as real as your own Shire. And," Gildor smiled sadly. "If you have lived as long as we have, and seen the horrors and the joys that we have seen, then you will know what weariness means."

If Gildor meant to console him, it did not work. Instead, Blanco grew even more distant at his words. The differences between them now came into full focus.

"I must go," Blanco muttered, rising. "There is much to be done. We must bid our farewell here, for I know you will travel again soon."

And Gildor heard much more that was left unsaid. This was their last meeting, for now Blanco believed that there was little left in their friendship.

"As you wish," Gildor said, rising again. "Farewell, Master Hobbit." Blanco nodded jerkily and then went down the path leading back to the houses; to his little safe haven.

"Blanco," Gildor called. The Hobbit paused and turned halfway around. "I am glad to call you my friend, in the brief time we had."

Blanco offered him a slight smile.

"And I, you."

Gildor smiled softly, and then disappeared into the lengthening shadows of the forest.

He met with his company and found that they, too, were abandoned by the Halflings and their presence was also unwelcome. They exchanged little words as they took the main road.

"What a world we live in," Gildor remarked to the Elf riding beside him in a quiet voice, "when friends are no longer trusted."

"Such is life, my sworn brother." His companion replied. "And in my heart, I cannot blame them for their distrust. They are simple folk, untroubled by war and ruin. And I hope they remain this way. Their happiness makes me glad."

"I suppose that is indeed true." Gildor conceded. "

 **~S~**

 **Author's Note:**

According to Tolkien, the Hobbits appeared in history somewhere in early Third Age.

The Hobbits were the same as seen in Lord of the Rings, comfortable in the Shire and having little concern to the outside world. In the beginning, the Hobbits befriended the Elves and for a time all was well. But they did not like the Sea and were uncomfortable with the thought of Elves passing over it. Soon, their fear grew and they became distrustful. After a time, their friendship broke.

Blanco, by the way, is a canonic character, one of the three founders of the Shire.

Do leave a review!


End file.
